Page 98 of Crown of the Courtesan

The birds go silent.

“Ash!”

He flips around, the sound of pounding hooves catching his attention. Before he can react, a horde of orcs wearing red armor charges into our group. Their swords glint menacingly as they rush toward us on horseback. The air is thick with clanging metal and the screams of battle as our soldiers desperately try to fend off the surprise attackers.

In one swift movement, Ashland draws his blackened sword from its sheath at his back. The iridescent jewel in the pommel glimmers for a second, and then, without uttering a single word, he runs forward, slashing at the orcs, who scatter.

The battle rages on, with neither side gaining an advantage despite many riders falling to the ground with bloody wounds gouged into their sides and their entrails hanging out.

Frozen in fear, I cower against the tree, wishing Ashland had allowed me my sword on this journey. Like an untrusting fool, he ensured Neriene was left in the armory, citing the rules of captivity.

Now look at me.

No weapon. No fighting leathers.

No trust. In the middle of a battle.

All because of him.

I cling to that anger because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

Back still pressed against the tree, I shudder out a breath, not knowing if I’m more upset with him or with myself for ever thinking I’m ready to wield a weapon. Because the reality—the brutal reality of battle, paired with sliced flesh and dying screams—is utterly overwhelming. No, it’s terrifying compared to the orderly conduct of training. It makes me want to run, hide—anything but throw myself into this warfare.

Valora slashes into the enemy soldiers with her swinging blade, protecting me from the orcs coming straight toward us. Sweat dripping down her forehead, muscles tense, she lunges forward, countering their attacks with agile movements, dancing between their oversized forms. Despite the odds stacked against her, she refuses to back down, channeling all her strength into each graceful strike as she beheads any enemy that comes—and for the briefest second, I witness why she’s the renowned warrior princess that she is.

A scream rips from my lungs as I’m lifted onto a galloping horse that flies by. The wind whips my hair into my face, and my heart races as the horse’s power propels us forward at breakneck speed. I twist, letting out a sharp breath as my eyes lock on Prince Rett’s determined expression. His jaw clenches, and the intensity in his orange gaze scares me.

The horse rears on its hind legs, halting our retreat down the path. Rett holds me tightly, his grip unyielding even when my world turns upside down, and I lose all sense of what’s happening.

Then, I see him.

The Witch-King, atop his black stallion, blocks the path with a murderous smile and gleaming white teeth.

I plead, “Let me go!” but the battle noise drowns out my voice.

Eyes flaring with fury, Ashland bellows, “Release her!”

Rett charges and aims his broadsword at Ashland—the clash of metal rings like thunderbolts as they exchange blows. The orc soldiers gallop toward us from all sides.

“We’re wasting time,” Ashland yells, the vein in his neck pulsing.

Rett spits on the ground. “I’ll fight all night if I have to.”

“You have no claim to her.” Ashland swings his dark sword in wide circles. “Go back to your mama in the Beast Realm, little boy.”

Rett’s eyes narrow. “Call me a boy again and see what happens.” Arrows fly through the air, digging into the soil with their sharp points.

“Hand her over,” Ashland repeats, this time with swaths of black mist cascading off his caped shoulders. Two shadow hounds appear at his side, growling with long strings of saliva hanging from their snarled mouths.

“If you think I’ll surrender the Queen of Alexandria to you, then you’re as mad as everyone says,” Rett shouts, his grip tightening until I struggle painfully and gasp for air. I attempt to yell out for Ashland, but everything hurts. No sound comes, no matter how hard I try.

Rett’s grip loosens for only a second. Long enough for me to hoarsely cry once more, “Let me go!”

Ashland’s gaze meets mine, and something battles over his tortured features. “Every minute here with you is time we lose,” he grits out through his teeth before pulling his stallion down the hilly embankment toward the river path, away from us, away from me.

Gone like a gale shifting course.

Confusion flickers over Rett’s face, but he moves on, his orc soldiers following closely. As Rett’s horse gallops away, I peer back, a strange sinking in my stomach.